A young guy with a smattering of scars over the side of his face and neck comes in. He sets a duffle bag on the counter.
“Everything from her list,” he says with a nod.
I stare at the bag. It’s from my place. I’m stunned.
“Thanks,” Connor says.
“You need anything else, C?” he asks in a tone that says he’s ready and willing to run more C Crue errands.
“No, head out.”
The guy runs a hand through his scruffy hair and then looks at me. His gaze cuts back to Connor. “There were flowers on her mat. From a guy. Dennis. I tossed them on the counter. Figured the neighbors didn’t need a signal she wasn’t around.”
“Good.”
The guy sets my keys on the counter. “Later,” he says, leaving.
When the front door shuts behind him, C looks at me. “Dennis who?”
“Sanders. He’s my ex.”
“An ex who comes by your place?”
I shrug. “Sometimes. He probably came by to congratulate me for getting through opening night. He was around when we were planning the show.”
“We? Who’s we?”
Shit.That was a mistake. “Me,” I say quickly. “And Miss Sylvia. I got her advice on some things.”
He swigs his coffee. “Not a bad breakup if he’s bringing you flowers. Is he trying to get back with you? Or does he have something to make up for?”
“That’s personal.”
“How long were you with him?”
“Again, personal. As in none of your business.”
“It is my business. He’s a guy who shows up at your place unannounced. When was the last time he was in your apartment?”
The spoonful of fruit and yogurt pauses halfway to my mouth. “It ended three months ago. I don’t remember the last time he stopped by, but a while ago.” My mind races. I broke things off with Dennis when I’d suspected he was using me to get close to guys in Frank’s organization. He was always talking about wanting to make more cash and how the guys working for Frank Palermo never had to worry about money. No, I thought, they just had to worry about getting killed. I’d made it clear I wanted no part of dating someone who worked for Frank. When he’d mentioned Frank’s organization once too often and insisted on coming in when we went to pick up Rachel, I’d broken things off.
Connor sets his mug on the counter. “What’s on your mind, Z?”
I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say, finishing the bite of yogurt and turning. I rinse the container in the sink.
When I turn back, Connor is texting. A moment later, he slides his phone into his pocket.
“What was that about?” I ask.
“Do you love him?”
“What did you just do?”
“Nothing. Do you love him?” he demands.
“No, I’m not in love with him. That doesn’t mean I don’t care what happens to him. He shouldn’t be targeted because he’s my ex-boyfriend and left me flowers.”
“You think this is about jealousy?” he asks, coming around the counter.
